


Sherlock Gets a Job

by Amjead



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mild Language, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amjead/pseuds/Amjead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Holmes decides that this is the summer her youngest son gets a job. Sherlock, naturally, disagrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Gets a Job

**Author's Note:**

> As far as ratings go, it lands somewhere between, "G" and, "T." So, I went with the latter. This was supposed to be a humor fic, but it didn't end up that way. As far as the references to drug/domestic abuse go, they are mild references and by the middle of the story, they're never mentioned again. Feel free to follow me on tumblr: followallthefandoms

Sherlock Holmes laid awake in his bed. He could hear his mother downstairs putting breakfast on the table. How perfectly boring. Sherlock decided he would much rather lay in bed. He rolled over and glared at his wall's newest adornment, a secondary school diploma. His mother wanted to hang it in the parlor. He wanted to throw it away. So, they compromised. The diploma would be hung, but in a room where no one would see it.

“Sherlock!” called Mrs. Holmes. “Come down for breakfast.” The sleepy boy silently cursed the meal. He wasn't even hungry, but he went down and joined his parents regardless. He didn't want to anger his mother so early in the morning.

Sherlock trudged into the kitchen and sat down at his usual seat. He looked at the large breakfast before him and balked. He picked up his cup of tea and took a long, noisy sip.

“Good morning,” said his mother. Sherlock didn't say anything. He looked up from his tea and observed his mother and father share a nervous glance.

“Sherlock,” said Mrs. Holmes. “Your father and I have been talking. We think that this is the summer you get a little part time job.” Sherlock was shocked by this.

“A part time job? Why?”

“We think it would be good for you,” answered Mr. Holmes.

“I don't remember Mycroft having to look for a summer job when he became of age,” Sherlock said indignantly.

“He didn't have to find a job,” said Mr. Holmes. “A job found him. Thank God for the government.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Sherlock defiantly. “I don't need a job. I'm not getting one.” With that, his mother gave him a swat on the back of the head.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I am not having you sitting around this house doing nothing productive the whole summer again. You are eighteen. You are too old for such things. You are getting a job and that's final. You remember your father’s friend, Mr. Chatterjee? He owns a sandwich shop on Baker Street. I talked to him and he's more than happy to hire you. You start tomorrow at eleven.”

“What?” And that was how Sherlock Holmes got his first job.

Mrs. Holmes dropped Sherlock off at the sandwich shop the next morning. As she drove away, Sherlock looked at the red awning above. “Speedy's.” he read aloud and scoffed. What a stupid moniker. He entered the small cafe and was greeted by Mr. Chatterjee. “Good morning, Sherlock.” the middle-aged man said. Sherlock replied with a discreet nod in his general direction.

Soon, Mr. Chatterjee had trained Sherlock in sandwich making. He was a difficult student, but his boss just took it in stride. After all, Sherlock was his friend's son. It wasn't like he was going to fire him on the first day...even though he thought about it. Anyway, at noon Mr. Chatterjee turned on the cafe's, “open” sign and announced that they were ready for business. There was only one problem. They didn't have any costumers.

After a solid hour of no business, Sherlock groaned loudly.

“Mr. Chatterjee, this is boring,” Sherlock complained. “Can't I just go home?”

“No,” replied his boss as his patience thinned. “I know it's slow right now, but you never know when someone might walk in.” With that, the bell above the door jingled. There was a customer.

Mr. Chatterjee smiled at the woman who entered the cafe.

“Hello, Martha,” Mr. Chatterjee said warmly.

“Hello,” she replied with a smile of her own. “I just thought I'd pop in and see how you're doing.” Sherlock could see bashfulness flicker through Mr. Chatterjee's eyes.

Mr. Chatterjee gestured to Sherlock and said, “I got a new employee today. His name is Sherlock Holmes.” The woman turned to Sherlock and smiled pleasantly at him.

“It's nice to meet you, Sherlock,” she said. “I'm Mrs. Hudson. I live in the flats next door.” She extended her hand. Sherlock took it in his to shake it.

As Mrs. Hudson's hand was leaving Sherlock's, he noticed something. There was a certain white powder stuck under her fingernails. To the untrained eye, one would guess that it was flour, but Sherlock Holmes did not have untrained eyes. In fact, it was a substance that Sherlock was very familiar with. He looked Mrs. Hudson in the eyes and took a deep breath in. How odd. She did not have the eyes nor the scent of a user. He would have to do some more investigating when he got the chance.

“May I make you some lunch, Martha?” Mr. Chatterjee offered.

“That would be lovely. Thank you,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I'll just have my usual.” Mr. Chatterjee smiled affectionately.

“One egg salad on wheat with no crusts and extra lettuce. Coming right up.” Mr. Chatterjee slipped into the back and Sherlock laughed.

“What's so funny?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Isn't it obvious? He's wildly attracted to you,” said Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson blushed.

“Don't say that,” Mrs. Hudson said quietly as if she was embarrassed. “He is not. Besides, he's happily married.” Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson a questioning look.

“If that's the case, why doesn't he wear his wedding ring?” Mrs. Hudson didn't have time to answer. Mr. Chatterjee came back in with her sandwich.

“Here you are, Martha,” Mr. Chatterjee said with a smile as he place it in front of her.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Hudson graciously. She picked up her sandwich and was just about to take a bite when she noticed the clock on the wall. Her face fell as if she was horrified by something, a look that did not go unnoticed by Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson dropped her sandwich and began stammering. “Oh...Oh my. Look at the time. I...uh...I didn't realize how late it had gotten. I need to...I need to go. Now. Th-thank you for the sandwich. Maybe...um...Maybe some other time.” With that, Mrs. Hudson rushed out of the cafe.

“Strange,” thought Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson definitely needed some more investigating, but that would have to wait until later. Sherlock was still at work.

Sherlock turned and looked at Mr. Chatterjee. He was staring sadly out the door.

“Why don't you wear your wedding ring?” Sherlock asked, snapping Mr. Chatterjee out of his trance.

“What?” Mr. Chatterjee asked with surprise. Sherlock didn't have to ask again though. The answer to his question came banging down the stairs from the flat above.

“Who the hell is this?” Mrs. Chatterjee slurred when she saw Sherlock. He could smell the alcohol on her breath from across the room. Sherlock glanced up at the clock. 1:30. Too early.

“This is Sherlock Holmes. He's our new employee,” Mr. Chatterjee said quietly.

“New employee?” Mrs. Chatterjee repeated. “This better not be costing me any money.”

“It won't cost you anymore than your little habits,” Sherlock heard Mr. Chatterjee say under his breath.

“I'm going out,” announced Mrs. Chatterjee.

“Where are you going?” her husband asked.

“That's none of your business,” she snapped.

“You're going to the race track again, aren't you?” Mr. Chatterjee asked sadly.

“So what if I am?” Mrs. Chatterjee loudly slurred. “It's none of your fucking business!” With that, she angrily stormed out of the cafe.

“Why don't you leave her?” Sherlock asked after Mrs. Chatterjee left. “She treats you badly. It's obvious that you have feelings for Mrs. Hudson and-”

“How old are you?” Mr. Chatterjee asked, interrupting his employee.

“Eighteen,” responded Sherlock.

“You're only eighteen,” his boss repeated back. “You're too young to understand.” Sherlock looked away and rolled his eyes. If he had a pound for every time someone told him that he was too young to understand, he wouldn't need a job.

At the end of the day, Mr. Chaterjee was in the back taking stock while Sherlock cleaned off the tables in the front. Suddenly, a man in a suit burst into the cafe. He was carrying a box.

“We're closed,” said Sherlock flatly.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man asked boorishly. Sherlock glared at the stranger. He didn't appreciate being talked to so rudely.

“I could ask you the same question,” Sherlock said defiantly.

“I'm Frank Hudson,” said the man coldly. “I own this building, the flats upstairs, and the flats next door. Don't mess with me, you little shit.” Frank Hudson. Mrs. Hudson's husband. Sherlock took a good look at him. He had the eyes and smell that matched his wife's hands. He was the user. She was the roller.

Just then, Mr. Chatterjee came back to the front of the cafe with apparent nervousness on his face.

“Oh. Hello, Mr. Hudson,” Mr. Chatterjee said meekly. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“Obviously,” Mr. Hudson sneered. “I had to deal with this dumb kid.” he said as he lazily gestured toward Sherlock. He jerked toward Mr. Hudson, preparing to defend himself, but Mr. Chatterjee stopped him.

“Go to the back, Sherlock,” Mr. Chatterjee said quietly. Sherlock did as he was told, but he was still close enough where he could hear everything being said.

“I've got a new shipment,” said Mr. Hudson. Sherlock heard a sort of pat-pat noise. He figured that it was Mr. Hudson tapping the box he brought in with him.

“Right,” said Mr. Chatterjee weakly. He heard footsteps going toward the door. They were most likely Mr. Hudson's, but then they stopped.

“My wife wasn't in when I arrive home today,” said Mr. Hudson with quiet intensity. “She came in a bit later, but that doesn't change the fact that she was not there to greet me. Stay away from my wife, Chatterjee. Do you here me? Stay away from her and don't fuck with me.” Sherlock heard the door's bell jingle and then the purr of a car engine driving away. Mr. Hudson was gone. 

Sherlock came out from the back of the cafe. Mr. Chatterjee looked worried. He considered the box. Then, he turned his attention to Sherlock. He recalled a conversation he had once with Mr. Holmes. During that conversation, Mr. Holmes had expressed a concern about his son. He suspected Sherlock of being involved with drugs. Mr. Chatterjee looked the the box again and sighed.

“Sherlock, I don't think you should work here anymore,” Mr. Chatterjee said sadly. “It's not your fault. I just don't think that this is a good environment for you.” 

“You don't want me working here because you don't want me to get involved in the drug ring that's occurring in this caf,” said Sherlock quickly and evenly. “It's not that you think I'll tell. It's that my father has confided in you about his worries surrounding me and a suspected drug problem. You're just looking out for your friend's son. Don't worry, Mr. Chatterjee. I understand completely.”

Mr. Chatterjee silently stared in amazement at Sherlock for a moment.

Finally, Mr. Chatterjee said, “Good lad.” and fished two £50 notes out of his wallet. He handed them to Sherlock and said, “I'm sorry.”

“Save your apologies,” said Sherlock dryly as he accepted the money. With that, he left the cafe.

Before he went home, Sherlock made a stop at the flats next door. He rang the bell for 221A. Mrs. Hudson's voice crackled over the intercom.

“Who is it?” Mrs. Hudson asked sounding a bit scared.

“Hello. This is Sherlock Holmes. I met you earlier today. Could you let me in?” After a moment, Sherlock heard a buzz. He opened the door and walked inside.

When Sherlock entered the flat, Mrs. Hudson's back was to him.

“I just put the kettle on. I'll make some tea for you,” Mrs. Hudson said. As she bustled about the kitchen, Sherlock picked up a note card and pen. He began writing on it. “What can I do for you?” asked Mrs. Hudson as she turned to face her guest. Sherlock looked up at Mrs. Hudson and his words caught in his throat. She had a massive black eye. It was worse than Sherlock imagined. He didn't need subtlety. He spoke to Mrs. Hudson without any pretenses.

“If you want to put him away, call me,” Sherlock said as he slid the note card to Mrs. Hudson. He had written his phone number on it. Mrs. Hudson picked up the card and studied it. She thought about pretending she didn't know what Sherlock was talking about, but she knew that there was no point.

“It'll take years for everything to get sorted out,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“I'm willing to be patient,” said Sherlock seriously. Mrs. Hudson looked at the card thoughtfully.

Then, Mrs. Hudson looked back at Sherlock and said, “Once this is all over, if you ever need a cheap flat, come find me.” Sherlock nodded and the kettle whistled.

The next morning, Sherlock was doing his usual routine of laying in his bedroom, pretending to be asleep. In actuality, he was eavesdropping on his mother's telephone conversation. 

“He was fired after only one day,” Sherlock heard his mother say. “It was very strange though. He wouldn't say why he was fired. It was probably just Sherlock being Sherlock. I worry about him. I want him to be successful in life, but he won't if he keeps shutting everyone out the way he does. Anyway, I had a feeling that something like this would happen. So, I arranged a little back up plan. I have a friend who works at St. Bart's Hospital. She said Sherlock could come and work for her.”

Sherlock's curiosity was piqued. He didn't like the notion of having to go to another job, but a hospital interested him. He found the science of bodies fascinating. In fact, biology was going to be his field of study at University. Perhaps a little job at the hospital wouldn't be so bad.

Two hours later, he was standing in the hospital's gift shop. This was not what he had in mind at all. Sherlock stood at the cash register glaring at nothing in particular. Even worse, he had to deal with a co-worker. He was a young bloke called Mike Stamford. He was nineteen and had just completed his first year at University. He was studying to become a doctor.

Mike was a nice enough guy. When he was first introduced to Sherlock, he ignored the teen's icy exterior and tried to be friendly.

“My mate John and I are going out for pints after work on Friday,” Mike said to Sherlock. “Would you like to join us?”

Sherlock, angry at the world for being forced into a retail job, spat back with, “That sounds like the absolute last thing I would want to do.” Mike laughed. He found Sherlock's blunt honesty to be strangely amusing.

Sherlock found that he didn't hate Mike. He wasn't completely stupid. He gave Sherlock his distance and he was one of the very few people who didn't hate Sherlock. He decided that Mike could stay. Now, as much as Sherlock didn't hate Mike, he hated everyone else. Every costumer that came into the gift shop was like a new personal adversary for Sherlock. One day, there was a particular customer that really got Sherlock's blood boiling.

Sherlock's supervisor had just gone on her lunch break. He was alone in the gift shop when a man strode up to the cash register. He dropped a flower planter on the counter.

“I'd like to return this,” he said. Sherlock inspected the wilting tulip.

“It's dead,” Sherlock said flatly.

“I know,” said the man. “I bought this yesterday. I went to water it this morning and it was dead. I want a refund.” Sherlock hadn't been working the previous day. So, he wasn't sure if this man's claim that he was in the shop yesterday was true or not. Regardless, Sherlock couldn't give him a refund for the plant.

So, Sherlock said, “Unfortunately, you can't return this. We only offer refunds on items we can resell. Obviously, we can't resell a dead plant.” This irked the costumer greatly.

“What do you mean I can't return this?” the man snapped. “I just bought this yesterday. You shouldn't have sold me such a weak plant if I couldn't return it.” The man was starting to irritate Sherlock.

“I have no control over what the plant does,” Sherlock quietly seethed. “I can't help it if you don't know how to take care of a simple tulip planter.”

The man wasn't being all that reasonable to begin with, but Sherlock's flippant response really set him off.

“Don't be snippy with me, you little punk. I'm a paying customer. You have to be nice to me. I could get you fired.” Sherlock had a witty retort, but he decided against it. Sherlock had been let go from Speedy's after only one day. He didn't want to get fired from the gift shop after only one week.

So, Sherlock took a deep breath and said, “May I see your receipt? I'll see if there's something I can do.”

“I don't have a receipt,” replied the man. Sherlock's tact went out the window.

“What do you mean you don't have a receipt?” Sherlock asked loudly. “You can't make a return unless you have a receipt.”

“This is ridiculous,” shouted the man. “I'm in here all the time.”

“What do you mean you're in here all the time?” Sherlock asked. “This is a hospital gift shop.”

“I live nearby,” the man said. “Coming here to buy things is convenient.” Sherlock put his face in his hands. This man was being so difficult.

“I don't understand why you can't make the return,” the man said haughtily. “I'll have you know that my daughter recently had a baby. She was able to return all of her unwanted items to the mall without any receipts.”

“This isn't a bloody mall!” Sherlock shouted.

“You better watch your mouth,” spat the man as he angrily rushed out of the store, leaving the planter. “You'll end up like that Carl Powers boy.” Sherlock's mouth dropped open in shock. He knew it was an empty threat, but it troubled him just the same.

Just then, Sherlock's supervisor came back from lunch. She could see that Sherlock was very upset.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“I don't think I can work here anymore,” said Sherlock. “Sorry.” With that, he left the gift shop and never came back.

As if Sherlock's day couldn't get any worse, when he arrived home, he was greeted by his brother.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock groaned.

“Don't talk to your brother that way,” his mother corrected. “He'll be joining us for dinner.”

“Suddenly I'm not hungry,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“How was work today?” Mrs. Holmes asked.

“Uh, fine,” Sherlock responded a bit too quickly.

“Certainly doesn't sound fine,” Mycroft chimed in. Sherlock glared at his brother.

“Did something happen?” Mrs. Holmes asked. Sherlock stammered out an answer.

“No. I...uh...I quit, but I...um-”

You did what?” his mother shouted.

“I quit,” answered Sherlock quietly.

“I can't believe it,” cried Mrs. Holmes. “This was your second job in eight days. Sherlock, what are we going to do with you?”

“The homeless shelter on Northumberland has openings,” Mycroft offered.

“Mycroft, we're not kicking your brother out,” said Mr. Holmes.

“No. I meant that they have volunteer position open. I know it's not a paying job, but it'll be less embarrassing when Sherlock gets let go.”

“Oh, shut up,” barked Sherlock.

“Boys, be nice,” warned Mrs. Holmes. “Actually, that might not be such a bad idea. Universities always like volunteer experience. That settles it. Sherlock, tomorrow you'll go and volunteer at the homeless shelter.”

The next day, Sherlock arrived at the shelter. He was already fuming. Sherlock was tired of playing the job-hunt game. He expected this to be like his two previous jobs. Anything that dealt with other people had to be a detestable experience. Right?

Actually, to Sherlock's surprise, the homeless shelter wasn't so bad. The people weren't stupid. They didn't bog Sherlock down with things that didn't matter. These people had been through a lot. They weren't going to waste Sherlock's time.

Sherlock's responsibility was to serve food. It was perfect for him. Interaction was not required. Also, when one of the shelter's patrons did speak to him, they always got straight to the point. They didn't care what Sherlock did, just so long as he served them their food on time.

Even Sherlock's co-worker left him alone. Granted, it was more likely because he made her very nervous. On Sherlock's first day, he decided that introducing himself to his co-worker would be a good thing to do.

He approached the girl and said, “Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes.” Unfortunately, this seemed to render the girl speechless. She blushed and stammered and wasn't able to properly introduce herself. Sherlock just wrote her off as a stupid girl and went on his way. He wouldn't engage her and he wouldn't have to put up with a foolish person.

Now, while Sherlock was very stubborn, his opinion on things could be changed under the right circumstances. One day, at lunch time, Sherlock was serving up hamburgers. He was looking out into the cafeteria when, suddenly, there was a ruckus. Someone was choking.

“Call 999!” someone shouted.

“Somebody help him!” cried another. In a flash, Sherlock's co-worker was behind the choking man and giving him the Heimlich maneuver. Within a minute, he had coughed back up the piece of meat stuck in his throat. He had tears in his eyes as he thanked his savior. The people in the lunch room tried to congratulate her, but she mostly just shrugged them all off. She grabbed a napkin, used it to pick up the bit of spat up meat, and went into the kitchen to throw it away.

“Well done,” Sherlock quietly complimented as his co-worker tossed the napkin into the bin.

“It was nothing really,” she said shyly. “It's just basic life saving skills. Anyone could have done it.”

“Not everyone knows how to properly administer the Heimlich maneuver,” said Sherlock. “It's easy to get it wrong. Also, you stayed quite calm under pressure which is a very good thing.” Sherlock's co-worker blushed.

“I-I-I'm just doing my job,” she awkwardly stammered. With that, she made her nervous exit.

As Sherlock's co-worker was going out of the kitchen, the choking victim was coming in. He was a young boy, perhaps ten years younger than Sherlock.

“What's your name?” Sherlock asked him.

“Bill,” he replied. Sherlock walked over to Bill and handed him a £50 note.

“Find out everything you can about the girl who just saved your life."

Bill took the note and said, “Sure thing, Sir.”

The next day, when Sherlock came back to the shelter, Bill was waiting for him.

“I wasn't able to find out too much, but I got the basics,” said Bill.

“What can you tell me about her?” questioned Sherlock.

“Her name's Molly Hooper,” said Bill. “Her favorite subject in secondary school was biology. She loves mystery novels. She wanted to study forensic science at Oxford. She was accepted, but she doesn't have the money to go. She settled for entering the workforce, but it makes her sad. Getting a job that had to do with forensic science was her dream. She won't admit to being sad, but you can see it in her face if you know where to look.”

“Good work, Billy,” complimented Sherlock." If I ever need to find out information about someone, I'll remember you.”

“Thank you, Sir,” replied Bill. After a moment, Bill asked, “Do you fancy her?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Of course not. I merely deduce potential in her.” Bill accepted this answer and went into the other room to join the everyone else. Once Sherlock was alone, he found the shelter's telephone. He picked it up, dialed a number, and when the other line was answered, he said, “Hello, brother dear. Listen, does Oxford still owe you a favor?”

About a week later, Molly came into the shelter bubbling with joy.

“You look happy,” commented Sherlock.

“I am,” Molly enthused. “Before I left home today, a representative from Oxford phoned me. They've decided to give me a rather large scholarship. I can pay for Uni now. I'm so thrilled!” Molly was so caught up in her excitement, that she forgot herself and hugged Sherlock. Once she realized what she had done, she quickly let go and quietly muttered, “Sorry.” Sherlock ignored the awkward exchange.

Instead, Sherlock said, “Go tell Billy. He'll be excited to hear your news.” Molly smiled gently and excused herself.

As Sherlock watched Molly go over to Bill, he reflected on the fact that this was the longest he was able to keep his job. He knew it wasn't the paying job his mother wanted for him, but he had to be honest with himself. He actually kind of liked volunteering at the homeless shelter. It was good. Sherlock would stay. Perhaps a summer job wasn't such a bad thing after all.


End file.
